I recently had two experiences on consecutive days that left very different impressions on me. The first was a sparkling conversation with a colleague (John Higgins) over tea in a Brighton café. During and after our talk, I kept glimpsing possibilities for future collaboration and conversation. And we parted having agreed that we would organise an informal ‘café-style’ gathering in Brighton in the summer, focused on ‘speaking truth to power’ (John’s research subject).

The second experience was a seminar for first-year undergraduates that I ran in the same week (as a ‘guest lecturer’) – on essay writing. It went pretty smoothly as far as I could tell, but I couldn’t help noticing that it didn’t leave me buzzing like the café conversation just described. And it wasn’t just the bizarre setting: a cramped square room at the university, full of long grey tables covered by computers (known appropriately as ‘the workstation room’). Several other factors contributed to a mild sense of dissatisfaction. To give you a few clues, I’ll describe briefly what happened.

Before the seminar I had spent considerable time and thought on preparation; not so much what I was going to tell the students (I have plenty to say about writing), but what activities I could offer them and which questions might stimulate their thinking.

At the appointed time for the seminar (11am), only one student was in the room; the others arrived in dribs and drabs. So I waited about 15 minutes before beginning, by which time about a dozen had turned up (out of some 20 on the course).

I started by offering them a wide view of writing, quoting one of my favourite authors on the subject (Verlyn Klinkenborg): "Talking is natural, writing is not". As I spoke, I noticed that some of the students looked alert, others gave the impression they hadn’t slept enough. And when I posed questions, some spoke up while others remained quiet. But overall I think the session succeeded in engaging most of them. As I walked back to my bike afterwards, I noticed that, although I was reasonably pleased with how it had gone, I wasn’t feeling especially inspired or energised by the experience.

The following day I went to my desk in the morning, as usual, and wrote freely about these two experiences, using just pen and paper, without pausing to correct anything. Later I typed up my written reflections, editing as I went along; and today I reshaped and shortened them for inclusion here. ​

I could have just thought about these two human encounters, or discussed them with someone else, but the exercise of reflective writing (and rewriting) clarified and developed my thinking. It reaffirmed to me that, given a choice, I will nearly always choose an informal conversation with one of my peers over the alternative of standing in front of a class.

As well as showing me which activity generates the most energy in me, my reflections helped me work out what I might do differently in future, and even what really matters to me in life. If I choose to continue teaching, I will try to make it as much as possible like a café conversation.

There is of course nothing new about reflecting on experience. 16th century essayist Michel de Montaigne described how his own mind’s “principal and most difficult study is the study of itself”. Later he expanded:

“For anyone who knows how to probe himself and to do so vigorously, reflection [méditer in the French version] is a mighty endeavour and a full one… The greatest of souls make [it] their vocation, ‘quibus vivere est cogitare’ [“For them, to think is to live”: Cicero]; there is nothing we can do longer than think, no activity to which we can devote ourselves more regularly nor more easily.”

​Related reading

"Several short sentences about writing", by Verlyn Klinkeborg (2013)

“On three kinds of social intercourse” (“De trois commerces”), essay by Michel de Montaigne ​(1533-1592)

My star sign is Libra, and about 10 years ago an astrologer friend looked at my chart and said to me “You love order and beauty.” I have never forgotten those words. They seemed profoundly true, and yet in an instant they altered my perception of myself. Whereas previously I had associated ‘order’ with ‘control’ (bad), now I could see that it might be linked to beauty (good).

My friend’s words seemed to provide a clue about why I had been earning my living as an editor and ‘writing coach’ for so many years. My main purpose was (and remains) to help people bring some kind of order into their thinking and writing. I also encourage them to create elegant sentences, make plentiful use of examples and stories, bring in fresh words and avoid unhelpful clichés and meaningless abstractions.

When you think about it, the craft of editing is a strange combination of the poetic and the unpoetic. Typically, the editor’s prime aim is to remove the ambiguities and stumbling blocks that get in the way of reading and understanding. Poems, by contrast, often make use of suggestive ambiguity.

Another aspect of editing is precision, which I think goes hand in hand with order. It is hard to imagine a piece of writing being orderly if the words and phrases were lazily chosen or the sentences muddled and vague. I would even go as far as to say that precision can be beautiful. And writing can require more precision than speaking. As one of my favourite authors, Walter J Ong, put it:

“To make yourself clear without gesture, without facial expression, without intonation, without a real hearer, you have to foresee circumspectly all possible meanings a statement may have for any possible reader in any possible situation, and you have to make your language work so as to come clear all by itself, with no existential context. The need for this exquisite circumspection makes writing the agonizing work it commonly is.”

And what about beauty? The best way to find and understand it in writing is surely to read great works of literature, whether classical or modern, fiction or nonfiction, prose or poetry. Part of what makes an author great must surely be that they have an aesthetic sense of language and choose their words meticulously.

We cannot all be T S Eliots, but it is perfectly possible to learn to pay attention to the quality of words – their shape and sound, the associations they spark and the metaphors that lurk within them. Just think about that word lurk, for instance! Which reminds me what a revelation the book Metaphors we live by by Lakoff and Johnson represented for me. In it the authors reveal the ubiquity of unconscious metaphors in our everyday language.

This may all be obvious to poets and to readers of Shakespeare and Keats, but the rest of us can learn to write better if we pay close attention to the quality of words.

I may praise order and beauty but I also know that I can only be a good editor and writing coach if I recognise the natural complexity of the more-than-human world. So, when I help someone create order and beauty in their writing, I am fully aware that human experience itself is and always will be disorderly and messy. And yet, and yet… a clear, precise and beautiful piece of writing can help both writer and reader ‘make sense’ of this disorderly experience.

I realise that for some people an editor is a kind of pseudo-schoolmistress who takes pleasure in exposing her pupils’ grammar and spelling mistakes. But what I am suggesting here is that those of us who work as editors can and should go far beyond making people’s writing ‘correct’. (And by the way, some award-winning authors, such as George Sanders, break grammar rules with great effect.) Beauty matters in writing too.

In October, I was lucky enough to go to Taiwan, a place I had never visited before, for a trip that was part work, part fun. My highlights: conversations in teahouses, a walk in the hills outside Taipei (see above), bathing in hot pools, and being part of a performance in a modern museum in the city of Taichung.

On one particular day, I also ran a seminar at the University of Tapei on the subject of “Writing Experience” (deliberately ambiguous, since it could mean either “the experience of writing” or “writing about experience”, or both).

The people I was speaking to were interested in bringing their own experience into their writing. At one point, I invited them to spend five minutes writing freely about some themes I had been talking about(see photo below).

After the spell of freewriting, somebody offered to wander around the room collecting questions for me to respond to, one of which went like this: “I am interested in your life story; could you describe some turning points?” – a gift of a question! Thinking on my feet, I found myself recalling and sharing the following experience, which happened in my mid-40s:

While doing some work for an executive coaching firm in London, I encountered someone who behaved quite differently from all the other business consultants I had known up until then. I had heard that she was well-versed in something called ‘complexity theory'. Though I didn't yet know what this meant, I could see that it was capturing people’s imagination at the time.

The person's name was Patricia Shaw. and what really struck me was her way of working with people. To give a flavour, one afternoon she gathered everybody together for a conversation about ‘what we thought we were doing together’. She invited every member of the coaching firm – not just the coaches/consultants, but also freelancers like me, and the administrative assistants – and she called the conversation a ‘collaborative inquiry’. There was no written agenda, no formal presentation, no chairperson and, as far as I remember, nobody was taking minutes. In effect, it was an opportunity for each one of us to share our experience or our thinking, in whatever form we wanted.

As you can imagine, the contributions were diverse. Some were unexpected – I distinctly remember being taken aback when the person in charge of marketing chose to play a video by new-age guru Deepak Chopra. Not the usual material for a business meeting!

This memorable experience does seem like a turning point in retrospect. It gave me a glimpse of a different kind of work meeting – one without a planned, regimented written agenda. Also striking was the use of an apparently simple question like “What do we think we are doing together?”. I have since noticed repeatedly how useful this question can be in stimulating collective reflection and helping people get to know each other and work together.

But can such free-form conversations generate decisions or 'next steps'?, you might be wondering. Maybe not a list of 'action points' as such, but such gatherings can, in my experience, leave participants with a clear will and desire to do something differently.

I don’t know what my Taiwanese listeners made of my turning point story. But for me, the question reminded me of when and how I began to think that ‘simply talking’, though not easy, is a legitimate and valuable thing for work colleagues to do. ​

This summer we were engulfed by plums and greengages from our French garden. After making plum tarts, plum coulis, plum puree and plum jam, we still had kilos and kilos. So my husband went round to neighbours’ houses with bags of fruit and drove our red 2CV down the lane to friends in a neighbouring hamlet.

We soon noticed how much these small acts of giving strengthened our local relationships (perhaps obvious to anyone who has lived in the country). Each time we turned up at someone’s house with plums, a friendly conversation started; one couple spontaneously invited us over for an aperitif the next evening. I even gave a kilo to the woman who serves in the village shop, and the irony of ‘giving food to your grocer’ gave us both something to smile about.

It’s much harder to give stuff away when you don’t have enough of it yourself. In her brilliant novel “Half of a yellow sun”, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie describes perfectly the dilemmas people face in a situation of scarcity.

Though the book is set during the terrible war in Biafra in the 1960s when some three million people starved to death, it’s not relentlessly bloody or violent. Instead the author shows us the kinds of ‘micro-interactions’ that all add up to create a wartime society.

Towards the end of the book, Olanna, a previously well-off academic, is repeatedly confronted with the dilemma of whether or not to give food away when her own family is close to starvation. Together with her husband and baby, she has been forced to move into a single room in a multi-occupancy building. An unsmiling neighbour, Mama Oji, wastes no time in warning Olanna that all the other residents are ‘accomplished thieves’.

“Lock your door even when you are just going to urinate," she advises.

Meanwhile, Olanna’s baby soon makes friends with a little girl, Adanna, who has liquid-looking boils on her arms and a flea-ridden dog. When Adanna’s mother (Mama Adanna) notices cooking going on in Olanna’s room, she comes over holding her enamel bowl:

“Please, give me small soup.”

“No, we don’t have enough,” says Olanna.

Then, thinking of little Adanna’s only dress, which is made from the sack used to package relief food, she scoops some of the thin, meatless soup into the bowl. She repeats this generous act the next day, but on the third day Mama Oji is in the room and screams “Stop giving her your food! This is what she does with every new tenant.” Mama Oji adds that Mama Adanna is not a refugee but an indigene who could be farming cassava instead of begging others for food. The scene concludes with Mama Oji shouting “Shut up your stinking mouth!” at the other woman.

What this scene tells me is, first, that it's much harder to give stuff away when you don’t have enough of it yourself. And second, the decision to be generous can involve many conflicting impulses. It also makes me wonder whether I have ever made a present of something I would have preferred to keep for myself. I do recall some small examples of spontaneously giving away much-loved cashmere scarves to friends, knowing they were just the kind of thing they loved. But these examples seem piffling compared to what went on in Biafra.

So, what can those of us living in a wealthy society give away, apart from ‘things’ that many can afford to buy for themselves?” How about time and attention? When we give those, we don’t really even lose anything. But sometimes it feels as though we might. For instance, if we take time to listen to someone, we might have to put off something else that feels more important (for me it’s often my writing). What’s more, to listen really attentively, we have to stop distracting ourselves by silently preparing our next interjection. This can be hard.

It seems that being generous, whether with things or non-things, can be highly complex. While it's partly about compassion, it’s also entangled with other aspects of human relating, such as friendship, our sense of social obligation and even our identity – we might, for instance, want to be seen as kind and generous.

It’s also noticeable that a generous gesture often prompts a delightful and unexpected response. A few days after we gave away our surplus plums, more than one neighbour came round with a jar of jam they themselves had made out of them.

One day in my early 20s I was walking down Chelsea Manor Street in London and, as I passed the greasy spoon café (no longer there), a man with a strong London accent came to the door and proclaimed “My name’s Bill and I’m not married.” I continued on my way but I had to laugh out loud at his humour and directness. I even felt a bit flattered.

This memory was triggered by reading and reflecting on Lisa Smith’s delightful story “Auld Lang Syne” recently published in the Guardian newspaper. Rufus, an elegantly dressed black man in his 70s, finds himself spending New Year’s Eve in Brixton police station, amongst drug dealers, drunks and prison officers. Heclearly notices precisely how each female member of staff he encounters looks. For example, while he is standing in queue waiting to see the Custody Sergeant, this is what he is thinking:

He estimated the police lady behind the desk was in her early-to-mid forties. Her dark hair was scraped into a tight knot on the top of her head, making her face look pinched, severe. Rufus thought that with a little rouge on her cheeks she might be pretty, he’d dated a couple of white women back in the seventies. He smiled at the brunette. She didn’t smile back.

This short passage brought another memory back, this time from my late teens. I was working behind a bar in London SE1 (before it became trendy) when a customer suggested I take off my spectacles. I think he even leaned over and took them off himself and then said something like "You're actually quite pretty." Again, I think I felt somewhat flattered, but this time I couldn’t help thinking of the old, disheartening saying “Men don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses.” (Glasses have since become much more trendy.)

Going back to Lisa Smith's story, at the police station Rufus also meets Dr Kwarshie, the doctor on duty, a black woman. He notices how much she resembles his daughter, with her round face, dimpled cheeks and almond-shaped eyes.

The story left me wondering what to think of Rufus and his interest in women's looks. It doesn’t feel at all black and white (pun not intended). His conversations in the police station reveal a rather charming and honest person who has ‘a love of rum, dominoes, gambling and women’. He is currently on his fourth wife, half his age, and has been arrested because of her allegation that he assaulted her (it never becomes clear exactly what happened between them). But do I condemn him (no)? Would I want to avoid meeting him (no)? Do I take into account the culture he has grown up in (probably yes)?

And what about the two strangers who paid me compliments when I was younger? Do I condemn them? Certainly at the time, I had no desire to get to know either of them any better, but Bill's words still give me amusement today. (I notice now that I have no recollection of Bill's face or his figure. Just his words and the precise location of the café. I even know I was walking north, away from the river and towards the King’s Road.)

Ironically, not long before that experience, I had come across the ‘women’s lib’ movement (this was the 1970s). We resented the way women were viewed as ‘sex objects’ and how their bodies were displayed in advertising and tabloid newspapers. Nevertheless, when someone paid me a compliment, with humour, I couldn't feel cross.

To me, these kinds of incidents are relatively harmless, though they do reveal something about the men involved. My conclusion: I don't think every compliment made in public by a man to a woman is automatically sexist or 'predatory'. It all depends on the circumstances. ​

Related reading:

"Auld Lang Syne" by Lisa Smith. This short story won the BAME short story prize in 2017, which is supported by The Guardian newspaper and by the publisher 4th Estate.

In recent conversations I have noticed how some people seldom if ever ask a question. Instead they launch into expounding what they think about the world or whatever interests them, without checking whether I, or others listening, seem engaged.

In the past month alone, I have experienced this at least three times and the people in question were both young and older. One of the older people was extremely well-versed in current affairs, another expressed passionate views about the state of the earth, and the younger one had strong opinions about the way society and education should be run.

All three happened to be men. I only know one or two women who monologue in this way. But not all the men that I know favour monologue over dialogue. Far from it – I have many male colleagues and friends who ask great questions and listen attentively to the answers. But still, there does seem to be a pattern. One of my friends told me that when she meets a man for the first time she applies the ‘man test’: “Did he ask any questions?” Apparently there is a word for this behaviour: 'mansplaining'!

My response to habitual ‘monologuers’ has evolved over the years. Earlier in my life I criticised it, but now I find myself trying to understand it. Could it be that these people simply weren’t brought up to be inquisitive about others? One man told me he felt intrusive asking people personal questions about their lives. Or perhaps my initial assumption – that no questions means someone is not interested in me or my thinking – was flawed?

If (as I think) human beings co-create patterns like monologuing, we can also disrupt them – e.g. by interjecting, by bending the conversation towards a subject that matters to us at that moment, or by simply walking away.

I discussed this with a male friend recently. “Surely,” he said, “if you felt passionate about something, you would talk about it.” “Well, not necessarily,” I responded, “I tend to wait until I am invited to share my experience." I almost added: "And if I do speak, I want the other person to concentrate on what I am saying, not to look for the first opportunity to draw the conversation back to themselves or their interests.”

Strangely enough, I have also noticed lately that it is possible to ask too many questions. Journalists and researchers (including me) are particularly prone to this bias. Occasionally I find myself at the receiving end of a succession of curious questions, and I notice that it can quickly become exhausting, trying to work out my answers. I sometimes find myself wishing the flow of questions would abate, so I could ask a question myself and shift attention onto the other person.

I wonder if perhaps there is a range of personal tendencies or personality types – from those who habitually talk without much prompting, to those who typically inquire first. Maybe it’s a bit like autism – we are all somewhere ‘on the spectrum’. Nevertheless, I do think ultimately that a bit more inquiry and dialogue would make the world a better place.

Over the years, I have benefited from many courses in communication skills (I have even run some myself). They have all been useful, but there are limits to what training can achieve.

First, the very existence of such courses may encourage people to think that communication is all about techniques, and that there are experts out there who can tell or show us how to do it better.

Second, in practice the picture is always much wider than the individual’s skills. People communicate in a specific situation and there is always a history to it. So general principles and role playing may be inadequate to bring about the changes desired.

And third, if a course is focused on just one type of communication (e.g. either face-to-face or written), it may fail to address some of the most interesting dilemmas we face, such as the choices we are forced to make between email, telephone and face-to-face contact.

For some time, I have felt increasingly drawn to other sources of insight and illumination, especially: (1) paying attention, in the moment, to my own experience of communication; (2) reflective writing; and (3) using stories and literature to gain a deeper understanding of human relating. These three methods, if one can call them that, are well suited to exploring the complexities and subtleties of human relating. (I prefer the term ‘human relating’ to 'communication', as the ‘-ing’ suggests something that is in movement rather than a static ‘thing’.)

So, what would I suggest to a young professional eager to get better at communication, whether or not it is mediated by smartphones and other gadgets? For a start, I do think it’s worth taking every interesting training opportunity offered by your employer, whether it’s about public speaking, business writing, coaching or something else.

There are also some more unusual approaches to developing better conversational skills. ‘Nonviolent Communication’, ‘SAVI’ and Time To Think™ immediately spring to mind. I’ve recently looked into all three and have found each one useful, up to a point. In particular, one of the great things about Time To Think™ (even though I’m not so keen on the trademark) is that it involves taking turns to (i) think aloud and (ii) listen. This not only allows you to practise your listening skills but also encourages you to work out what you think, without interruption.

If you want to go beyond courses, here’s a bit more about the methods I mentioned earlier:

1. The art of noticing. Practise consciously paying attention to your everyday experience of human relating. Do you feel at ease in the midst of a conversation? Or is something troubling you that you don’t feel able to mention? Could you find a way of bringing it up? That might just shift something between you and the person you are talking to (as long as you do it thoughtfully – e.g. describing your own experience rather than blaming or complaining).

2. The wisdom of fiction. If you sense that a novel or film has depths in it that you would like to explore further, take a closer look. I favour reading/watching it again and then using reflective writing to explore what struck me. Or simply cast you mind back to a particular scene or memorable moment and associate freely in your mind - what was going on between the lines, do you recall a similar experience from your own life?

​3. If you like writing, take pen and paper and put down your thoughts and musings. No need to share these with anybody else; just write freely for yourself. You might be amazed at what emerges.

Trust between humans always has both history and context. Even when we first meet somebody, context plays a part. We may already have heard something about them, or we may be influenced by their status or job title – e.g. we probably respond differently to a nurse, a businessman, a teacher or a homeless person. So in my view, if we want to understand how trust works, abstract definitions have limited value. Perhaps what St Augustin said about time could also be said about trust:

“What then is time? If no one asks me, I know what it is. If I wish to explain it to him who asks, I do not know.”

If we can’t define trust satisfactorily, can we at least begin to understand how it develops between people – and between people and institutions – over time? That is what Rob Warwick and I explored recently with a group in Brighton, by using stories, group conversations and writing to stimulate thinking.

Overall, the day prompted me to reflect on how human relationships, and trust in particular, ebb and flow. If you cast your mind back to how one of your relationships has developed over time, you may recall some striking or memorable moments along the way. Perhaps something happened to unsettle or even destroy the trust between you. Maybe you managed to rebuild it. Maybe you didn’t.

Not surprisingly, I noticed just this kind of ebb and flow during the workshop. For example, I felt warmer towards people who smiled or responded constructively to something I said. In contrast, when someone spoke in a complaining tone (as if they were a consumer who had bought a faulty product), I noticed my trust in that person sag.

At the end of the day, I came away wondering again whether it isn’t a bit strange to focus solely on this “thing” called trust, when trust is only one of several aspects of human relating. What about fear, sadness, irritation, enthusiasm, love, disappointment, exclusion, rivalry or anger? Surely these all deserve our attention.

Talking of anger, I recall how an old friend once criticised me angrily at the breakfast table (there were five of us in the room at the time). His words felt pretty much out of the blue. The memory of that exchange has lingered in my mind ever since. I would still trust him in most things, but in that moment something precious was lost, and I have gone back to it in my memory many times.

One person at the Brighton workshop wondered whether trusting someone could be understood as “anticipating that they won’t do harm to us”. I suspect we just need to feel safe enough with other people to be able to “go on together”.

Note: The event was the AMED writers' annual workshop in Brighton on 20 May 2016: Writing, Conversation and Trust: a day of exploration by the seaside. The original research was funded by Roffey Park.

A couple of weeks ago, a long and delightful train journey to Devon gave me the opportunity to re-read some of the writings of Iain McGilchrist. As many know, McGilchrist’s subject is the human brain and the development of the Western world. When I first read his weighty book, The Master and his Emissary, some time ago, it helped me to make sense of how modern society has come to privilege left-brain ways of thinking, such as analytical thinking, bureaucratic processes and measurement.

The reason for my journey to Devon was to hear McGilchrist speaking at the one-day Limbus conference at Dartington Hall.* Since I can’t possibly do justice to his thinking in a short blog post, I’ll just share a few thoughts and phrases that have continued to circulate in my mind since the event:

How we pay attention makes a big difference. Only living beings can pay attention to the world. (A machine can carry out tasks, but it cannot attend, says McGilchrist.) And the fact that we have a divided brain – as apparently all animals and birds do – means we can pay attention in complementary but very different ways. In essence, the left hemisphere enables us to control and manipulate things, steering our attention to detail, clarity, analysis and a-leads-to-b logic – all very useful for our survival. The right brain, on the other hand, allows us to understand the wider picture and deeper meaning and is at ease with connections, paradox, myth, metaphor implicit meaning and feelings.

The modern world is out of balance.Symptoms of the dominance of left-brain thinking strike me every day – e.g. public services increasingly ruled by measurement and marketisation; people getting busier and busier, lacking the time for reflection on deeper meaning; and interacting more with their devices than with other humans. And this left brain emphasis can make us blind to many things that matter, such as quality, feelings, context and environment.

The left brain has a close relationship with communication and information technologies (or so it seems to me).Evidently we invented writing mainly to be better able to control and organise things (the left brain’s preference). But then of course every tool or technology we invent makes new things doable and ends up “acting back on us”. Writing, for instance, made highly-organised societies possible, but it also opened the door to excess bureaucracy. Let’s not forget, though, that technologies are intrinsically neither good nor bad – what matters is how we use them. Nowadays some of us feel overloaded by email and distracted by smart phones, but these newer tools also enable a lot of people to work whenever and wherever they want.

Metaphor is a crucial way of understanding the world......and was viewed as such up until the Enlightenment in the 18th century. “A lot depends on what you compare things with,” went on McGilchrist. If you compare them with machines, for instance, it has certain consequences. Today, our language is suffused with the machine metaphor – again and again, I am struck by how unthinkingly people use words like “mechanisms” and “feedback” when talking about human communication. In my view, this sloppy use of language cloaks some deep assumptions. It also makes it harder for us to grasp that human communication involves feelings, is interactive, and is seldom (if ever) unambiguous. McGilchrist used a striking metaphor himself, likening left-brain thinking to clear, translucent water, and right-brain perception to the ocean: deep, dark and mysterious.​That’s enough for now, but I don’t want to finish without mentioning briefly how struck I was by the quality of McGilchrist’s talk. For a whole hour he spoke in a slow and calm manner, barely consulting his notes. I think this allowed him to stay connected with his surroundings and attentive to the human beings in the room. And he projected just one slide: a picture of the majestic mountain he sees from his home on the Isle of Skye. He used it to illustrate the different ways in which we can perceive the world. We might associate the mountain with history, weather, spirituality and the senses, for instance. Or we can simply say “it’s just a rock”. But that would surely not do it or ourselves justice.___________* I'd like to thank the organisers, Farhad Dalal and Julia Vaughan Smith, for putting so much time and thought into the day.

** Astonishing when you think that our alphabet has just 26 letters and (if I’ve got it right) computer algorithms consist essentially of the same 26 letters, plus 10 numbers (0-9) and some grammatical and mathematical symbols.​

Related readingAlison Donaldson (2005): Writing in organizational life: how a technology simultaneously forms and is formed by human interaction, chapter in book Experiencing emergence in organizations (ed. Ralph Stacey).

Iain McGilchrist (2009): The Master and his Emissary: the divided brain and the making of the western world.

Iain McGilchrist: The Divided Brain and the Search for Meaning (Kindle Edition).

Talking is natural. Writing is not. (Verlyn Klinkenborg)​As soon as I started preparing a seminar on writing for a group of undergraduates studying music and sound, I noticed that I almost knew too much about my subject: in recent years I have become intrigued not just by writing itself but by the whole context around it. For example: the interplay between writing and conversation; the influence of communication technologies on human society; and the uses of narrative writing in education and at work. As some of my readers know, I work as a writing coach and I even focused my thesis on how people use writing in organisations...

The students are in their first year at university and have an essay deadline looming, and we will only have two hours together, so I wanted to come up with a seminar that is pitched at the right level and includes plenty of useful learning activities. On this occasion, therefore, I wanted to set aside my specialised interests and focus on some of the “essentials” of essay writing.

The next thing I noticed was that my preparation process was a long and winding one: I thought about the seminar on walks, in the shower and while sitting on trains; I had conversations about it; I drew mindmaps; I looked at relevant documents; I made a provisional plan; I let the ideas simmer overnight; I went back over the plan; and then I had the idea of writing a blog post about it. The whole exercise left me wondering whether I am one of those people who, in the words of French essayist Michel de Montaigne, feel compelled to go in for “tedious and elaborate meditation” when preparing a talk or sermon!

Eventually, thank goodness, I was ready to jettison less relevant stuff and settle on what I think are the most essential skills needed to write good essays:

(1) Organising one’s thinking – I want to help the students work out how to structure their argument, given that their 2000-word essay is supposed to feature one case study (e.g. a musical work) and they have been told to: (i) describe the work; (ii) analyse the medium; (iii) contextualise the work; and (iv) interpret it.

(2) Writing good sentences – for less experienced writers, this includes stripping out every unnecessary word, using active verbs, breaking down long, unwieldy sentences into shorter ones, and revising drafts meticulously.

(3) Liberating one’s creative thinking – with the help of activities such as conversation (e.g. talking to a fellow student) and “freewriting” (taking pen and paper and spending a few minutes handwriting whatever comes to mind on a particular subject without stopping or erasing anything).

The first two skills (structure and sentence-writing) may seem obvious ones to learn, but I think the third one is often underrated.

After I had settled on these three, I started to wonder what my overarching idea might be, if indeed there is one. Perhaps it is simply that essay writing takes time and effort – you can’t just dash it off at the last minute. Indeed, a good essay usually requires revisiting the draft again and again (some call this “iterative” writing). "All writing is revision, claims Verlyn Klinkenborg in his exquisite book, Several Short Sentences About Writing:

A writer may write painstakingly,Assembling the work slowly, like a mosaic,Fitting and refitting sentences and paragraphs over the years.And yet to the reader the writing may seem to flow.(Verlyn Klinkenborg)

(I’ll leave you guessing how many times I revised this blog post before plucking up courage to press “Publish”.)

If this all sounds like too much hard work, it is – many people find writing arduous and painful. I suspect this is partly because human beings are first and foremost talking animals – as a species, we started to speak many, many thousands of years before we invented writing. Without writing, our oral ancestors were limited to talking to each other and telling stories from memory. They certainly couldn’t “look things up” in books or on the internet and they had no way of developing complex, abstract arguments.

I have noticed that being good at writing is a great advantage in life. Yes, it’s a bit of a slog, but it can also be satisfying and mind-expanding... maybe precisely because it involves such a rich mix of analytical and creative thinking.

PostscriptIt was great fun working with the students last week. One noticed that having a conversation with somebody about their essay subject made them feel enthusiastic about it. And as for the freewriting, they didn't seem to want to stop, even though one student said he didn't like his own handwriting.

An acknowledgementAlthough I had tried out freewriting (AKA automatic writing) myself some time ago, it was Gilly Smith who helped me see its true value by introducing me to "dreamwriting".